


Da Hong Pao

by cable69



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5392208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cable69/pseuds/cable69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Dr. Nyota Uhura steps on board the USS Enterprise, Captain Schuyler Tagai Spock feels three things, in this exact order: surprise, acceptance, and anger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Da Hong Pao

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on ff.net; unedited.
> 
> "A/N: As selected to write and post next by those who voted for it in the poll at the top of my profile (which is still open and now has new options because I can’t stop coming up with ideas). I advertised this story originally as “K/S ON A BOAT,” but it has turned out to be more serious than initially planned (the Churchilll quotation notwithstanding). Also, full disclosure, everything I know about the US Navy and the Pacific Theater comes from John Wayne movies, APUSH, and one Stephen Ambrose book. Please don’t yell at me about getting shit wrong. I’m here for the gay, not the historical accuracy. 
> 
> This story is fragmentary because I am tired of working on it. I will not write more."

Don’t talk to me about naval tradition. It’s nothing but rum, sodomy, and the lash.  
—Winston Churchill

I feel all we have done is awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve.  
—Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto

x

The first time Dr. Nyota Uhura steps on board the USS Enterprise, Captain Schuyler Tagai Spock feels three things, in this exact order: surprise, acceptance, and anger.

He is surprised because he expected Dr. Uhura to be male. The acceptance comes immediately that, as berates himself silently for this lapse in considerate thinking. He shakes Dr. Uhura’s hand warmly. She does not look at all wary, or as if she is uncomfortable with her situation. She is wearing a neat, pressed dress of checkered blue and black, and a little box hat—the same kind Spock saw on a Macy’s mannequin last time he was on shore leave—is tilted on her head. She is carrying a man’s briefcase and wearing surprisingly masculine boots. But her nails are carefully polished and her makeup attentively applied. She does not blink as she makes eye contact with him.

“Doctor Uhura,” said Spock. “I am pleased to have you aboard the Enterprise. Admiral Pike said you would be a valuable asset.”

“I hope to be,” said Dr. Uhura, a smooth, bland accent rolling off her tongue. “I’m glad to help the US in any way possible.” She smiled, very slightly, and he thought, for a second, that she would look more natural in trousers—which was a very strange thing to think, because women don’t wear trousers. “You’re acquainted with Admiral Pike, then?”

Spock nods. “The Navy is interconnected,” he says. “I know most of the admirals.” This isn’t a boast: Spock is next in line for a promotion, after this business in the Pacific is finished.

They walk a little way into the Enterprise. Dr. Uhura has entered on the sixth deck, at the standard crew receiving entrance. He grants her one of his rare smiles and offers to take her bag; she insists on carrying it herself. 

The anger comes hours later, much after Dr. Uhura is installed in her quarters, introduced to her assistants, and familiarized with her surroundings. Lt. Sulu, with a pained expression on his face, comes into the captain’s ready room to tell him that Dr. Uhura has been attacked.

x

The usual suspects are as follows:

Private Edwin Marshall Jayce Hutchins, from Atlanta, Georgia. 19. Disciplinary record four pages long.

Private Herbert James Cameron, from Westboro, New York. 18. Disciplinary record a two and a half pages long.

Private Henry Thurmond Tyler, from Jade, Nevada. 18. Disciplinary record three pages long.

And Private James Tiberius Kirk, from Riverside, Iowa. 18. Disciplinary record—Spock actually blinks at this—twenty-six pages long.

“And nowhere,” Private Kirk points out with more than a little heat in his cocky voice, “does my record state that I have been reprimanded for or even accused of beating up somebody, much less a woman, without provocation.”

The kid is leaning with seeming ease against the wall of a brig cell, his arms crossed over his unadorned chest, his salior’s whites impeccably clean and his blue eyes burning. He has short-cropped blond hair and a thick jaw, but there is nevertheless something delicate about him. Perhaps his eyes—which are, Spock thinks distantly, less blue and more sparkling tropical sea at night, reflecting stars—lighten his heavy face. His indignation is something of a halo, lightening Spock’s perception of him as a potential assailant. Spock does not generally let emotions—his or others—influence him, but Private Kirk’s emotions transcend this.

Honestly, Spock didn’t suspect Private Kirk in the first place. He knows all about Kirk, even though he’s never met him before. Admiral Pike had him transferred to the Enterprise special, sending along a memo about it that read: Sorry Spock, but he’s one of those kids that’s got shit-tons of potential hidden behind even more shit-tons of personal issues. Good luck and don’t be afraid to deck him.

Spock has about a billion other things to do but justice is in his blood, so from the brig, he goes to sickbay to see how Dr. Uhura is doing.

“Oh, she’s fine,” says the chief medical officer, a shockingly disagreeable man named Leonard McCoy, as he moves like a small tornado around the tiny sickbay lobby. “Got some nice shiners.” He shoves a few rolls of bandages into a cabinet and slams it shut, the muscles in his strong arms flexing as thick fingers work a lock. He moves behind his metal desk to close a drawer and pauses there, leaning on the desk with his knuckles white against the stainless steel, making a compelling picture: sleeves rolled up, loose hair hanging over his brows, front-and-center eyes blue like Private Kirk’s but fathoms stormier. 

“You gonna shoot the fuckers who did this?” The heat in his voice could cook a steak to well.

Spock generally tries to clamp down on bad language, but this is Leonard McCoy, and it’s in his soul to curse, Spock’s pretty sure. Anyway, Spock’s also surprised, because he’s heard McCoy use terrible, hateful words before, for Africans and Asians and Eastern Europeans and Latin Americans and everybody who’s not a white Protestant American male. But it occurs to him that McCoy is maybe a little deeper than he suspected, because there’s a surprising amount of crazy in McCoy’s eyes when he asks about the punishment Spock is going to dole out to a white man for beating up a black woman.

“A court martial should do the job,” said Spock, and then, quietly, with a certain amount of shock that he’s saying this, “but I shall more than consider the older physical punishments, Doctor.”

“Good,” McCoy growls, very much not looking at Spock. “You’re a good man, Captain.”

Spock is unselfconsciously aware of this, but he has to hold back a little blush anyway.

x

“Private Kirk,” says Spock, “you are free to go.”

Kirk glares horribly at Spock and grabs his hat and storms out of the holding cell, leaving Private Herbert James Cameron alone to face one count of assault and battery, two counts of fighting aboard ship, one count of abuse of a civilian, and four counts of direct disobedience. These charges are enough to put a private behind bars for three years, or send him straight into downtown Berlin wearing nothing but USA-themed boxers, a yarmulke, and an empty sub-machine gun. Spock knows which option he likes better, but something tells him that the former, sadly, is a large quantity more feasible.

Hickham Air Force Base is heavily cratered and barely staffed, but that’s where the USS Enterprise is docked right now, a week after sailing out from San Francisco with orders to engage the Japanese as soon as they could be found. Occasionally, on outside tours, Spock steals a second to lean over the railing and watch bubbles of oil drift up from the USS Arizona, shattered at the bottom of the bay. He imagines that he can see bodies there, the flesh peeling off their faces, and the war is more real to him than it ever has been in those moments. It’s certainly more real than it is in the shadowed map-rooms of LA, or over the static-ridden radio waves that beam in from DC. 

He closes his eyes and remembers driving to Annapolis on the morning of Monday, December 8th, listening to President Roosevelt talk about infamy and diplomacy and declaring a war that already exists. 

Later, after the sentencing (six months in prison, much to Spock’s pleasure), he is in his office flipping through maps and drinking coffee when Lt. Sulu comes in holding a sheaf of papers and the Honolulu Star-Bulletin.

“Dr. Uhura would like to see you, Captain,” Sulu says. Spock glances up and sees the strangest expression on Sulu’s face.

“Yes, send her in,” says Spock. Sulu turns to leave. Spock says, “Wait.”

“Sir?”

“How is your family, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know, sir,” says Sulu, his mouth a line. “I don’t think they have much spare paper at Tanforan.”

Dr. Uhura comes in a minute later. The left corner of her mouth is dark and swollen, and there is a fading cut at her hairline. She sits neatly in the chair Spock pulls out for her. Her expression is exactly the same as it was when Spock first shook her hand.

“How is your translation going, Doctor?” he asks, pouring her some tea. She eyes the glass.

“Oolong?” she says. She lifts it up and sniffs it carefully. “Dà Hóng Páo. Impressive, Captain.”

“Yes,” says Spock, pleased. “It was given to me as a gift by Chiang Kai-shek.”

“I did not know you had been to China,” says Uhura. A quiet smile plays around her lips. “Do you speak Mandarin?”

“Fluently,” says Spock. “My father was Chinese.”

“Oh.” Uhura looks surprised. 

“My mother was Dutch,” Spock goes on. “I was born in New York City, but I was raised all around the globe.” He pauses to pour himself tea, and treasures the aroma of it. “My parents were killed in the Manchurian invasion.”

“I am sorry,” says Uhura quietly.

Spock does not know what to say for a moment, but neither does Uhura. Her dark eyes dart around the room.

“Dr. McCoy was very kind to me,” Uhura says finally. “I am, to be honest, not used to such gentle treatment at the hands of Southerners.”

“Yes, he is a kind man,” says Spock. “He runs an excellent sickbay.”

“Indeed,” Uhura says. “His nurses are very kind as well.” For a moment, she looks bashful, then visibly pulls herself together. “Thanks to your assistants, I have made progress on the translation.”

“Wonderful,” says Spock. “I am very glad to hear it, Doctor.” His lips purse and he filters the Dà Hóng Páo through his teeth. The orange sparks of flavor nip at his gums.

x

Lt. Sulu wakes Spock up at midnight. “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt your sleep,” he says, sounding nervous as he shakes Spock’s shoulder, “but there was a fight just now, and since Private Kirk was involved, I thought you would want—”

“Yes, thank you, lieutenant,” says Spock, sitting up and turning his bedside lamp on. He is immediately awake. “What is the situation?”

“It’s not serious,” says Sulu. “No bad injuries. Doctor McCoy is having a few people stitched up. It was five-on-one—Kirk was the one.” Sulu scratches his head idly. “Not a big surprise.”

Spock, stepping behind his dressing screen to put his uniform on, raises an eyebrow. “Do you know Private Kirk, Lieutenant?”

“We went to Annapolis together, sir.”

Spock pauses, his tie half-done. “Annapolis? Private Kirk is a commissioned officer?”

“Was a commissioned officer, sir,” says Sulu. “He’s one of the smartest men I know, and honestly, sir, he’s incredible leadership material as well.”

“Then how did he get into my sickbay after a bar brawl as a private?” says Spock, emerging from behind the screen.

Sulu straightens again. “Sir, I’m not sure, sir. I’m not allowed access to personnel files unless you sign off.”

“Yes, you are,” says Spock. “You’re a lieutenant first-grade and my personal assistant.”

“I am also Japanese, sir,” says Sulu.

Spock closes his eyes for a second. He had forgotten about receiving that particular memo from the Pentagon. “I will get you permission,” says Spock. “I want those files by the time I get back.” He scribbles down his order, then unlocks his safe for his personal stamp, which isn’t navy protocol but sometimes he wants his orders obeyed as quickly as possible. 

In sickbay, the five of the five-on-one don’t look terrible, although one of them has a broken nose and all of them need stitches. Kirk, though, is in his own room, although he sounds fine, judging by the amount of cursing he’s doing.

“I’m a doctor, not a babysitter,” McCoy hisses at Spock, coming out of the room with smears of blood all over his chest and arms. “This man is the single most frustrating sailor I have ever encountered! You need to get him off this ship.”

“Noted,” says Spock simply, and turns away. McCoy mouths at him in purest anger for a bit. By the time he gets around to figuring out what to say in reply, Spock is already gone.

“Private Kirk,” says Spock easily, slipping through the door. The room is very small; it’s more of a recovery room than a place for private treatment. Kirk is set in an awkward pose on a too-small bed, bandages strewn across the room and a surprising amount of blood dripping from a long gash on his head.

“Captain Spock,” says Kirk, immediately trying to get up. Spock sees him wince very slightly when he moves his right leg, so he crosses the room and puts his hand on Kirk’s shoulder.

“At ease, Private,” says Spock gently.

“Yessir,” says Kirk, face white, having jostled his leg again.

“What happened?” Spock asks simply, pulling up a chair.

“We had a disagreement, sir,” says Kirk, evidently shifting into a comfortable position. Spock is surprised by how blank Kirk is. The pain in his expression is gone, replaced by vacancy.

“A disagreement,” Spock repeats.

Kirk turns bright brown eyes on Spock. “Yes, sir. A disagreement. What else do you want me to say?”

Spock has not, before this, realized how tough Kirk was going to be to deal with. 

“I do not want you to say anything, Private,” says Spock. “People should speak freely.”

“I don’t think you want me to speak freely, sir,” says Kirk.

“I am well aware of what I want,” says Spock, without first considering how that would sound. He goes on despite the slightly strangled look Kirk gets. “Private, you have heard enough about me from your compatriots to be well aware of my leadership qualities. I do not seek to quash discourse, intellectual or otherwise. I am open to any point of view brave enough to express itself. My version of discipline is extremely divergent from general Navy practices. You know this, James.”

“Call me Jim, sir,” says Kirk, and Spock hears the elision between the m and s that has been absent before: Kirk didn’t hesitate to call him sir, this time.

“Then speak freely,” says Spock.

And judging by the now bamboozled expression on Kirk’s face, it becomes clear that Kirk didn’t have anything to say to begin with.

x

The navigator is a Russian kid named Chekov that Lt. Sulu has taken under his wing. Spock learns from Sulu that Chekov’s parents were physicists who defected from the Soviet Union years ago, and Chekov has never felt comfortable in America, which is why he joined the Navy. Spock thinks that to nobody else would this make sense, but to him, Chekov’s reasoning is crystal clear.

Spock knows a few things. It’s impossible to be a bisexual man in the 1930s without picking up certain signs, and Spock, who is nothing if not perceptive, realizes, a few weeks after Chekov comes on board, that Chekov and Sulu’s relationship is just that.

Spock would generally be subtle about this type of thing, but Sulu’s family at Tanforan has been moved to a smaller housing unit with a leaky roof, and Sulu is angrier than usual, more rebellious and willing to do stupid things. He mouths off to a major at one point, and even though he’s Spock’s personal assistant, he’s also a slightly effeminate Japanese man, and McCoy has to apply his needle and thread again. Spock is getting really tired of the fights.

Spock can’t count how many young service members he’s taken aside and said, “Sometimes our passions overwhelm our best interests” to, and it’s always worked—the combination of shock, shame, and gratitude convinces them to cut down on the bathroom liaisons and dark-corner trysts that could get them discharged—but when Spock finally takes Sulu gently by the upper arm and pulls him into his ready room, he doesn’t give his usual spiel.

“It is difficult,” says Spock instead, “to be a homosexual in the armed forces.”

Sulu’s face goes completely white and under his sleeve. Spock can feel Sulu’s muscles tense in horror. Spock is himself slightly flushed; he has never said anything quite so blunt before.

“S-sir,” says Sulu.

“But it is even more difficult,” Spock goes on, “to fight a war.” He releases Sulu’s arm and goes to lean back on his desk, arms crossed over his chest. “The military needs people who are willing to sacrifice everything for their country. The military asks very much of its servicemen, Lieutenant. It asks too much. Society asks too much of us as well, and yet we will die to defend it, however unfair it may be.” He pauses to make sure he has Sulu’s eyes. “We do this because we are defending the Constitution of our nation, which ensures our rights—even those not originally covered by the Constitution.”

“The Ninth Amendment,” says Sulu, as if something were stuck in his throat. “And the Fourteenth.”

“Yes,” says Spock. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Lieutenant?”

Sulu nods sharply.

“Dismissed,” says Spock.

x

Officers do not eat C rations, but Spock is too busy to go to dinner, and sends his Chief Engineer up instead. Commander Scott needs a break, even though he protests heartily that he does not, so Spock has him escorted to the dining room. Spock hunts the key off of a can of scalloped potatoes and cuts it slowly open, pouring over the engine blueprints and trying not to pour the cold rations over them as well.

There is something wrong with the engines but even Scott is having a difficult time figuring out exactly what it is. They’re chugging along at the normal speed, but just about all of the soldiers have said something to their commanding officers about how the ship feels… off. Chekov, who has turned out to be a bit of a genius, is off amongst the pistons and cannot be found for dinner. That’s alright, though; Spock might need him to clarify some of the lighter notations on the plans.

He’s glaring at Fig. 447b when he hears boots clack down the tin stairs, across the engine room, and up to his seat. “Captain,” Private Kirk salutes. “Compliments of Commander Scott.” He hands Spock a small, square cloth package.

“What is this?” Spock says, unfolding the wrapper. It has many layers. The cloth is thin and coarse.

“Don’t know, sir,” says Kirk. Spock glances up at him and Kirk’s eyes dart upwards. He was looking at the wrapping too.

They’re biscuits, soft and buttery, and Spock gives Kirk one. Kirk salutes to Spock again and turns on his heel to walk away, and frozen on Spock’s tongue are the very simple words, “Private, there are crumbs on your lips,” but he can’t say them, and he doesn’t know why.

x

On May 3rd, 1942, the Enterprise is in sight of Tulagi. Spock sits at a radio with a window to the dark island, listening to Admiral Fletcher’s aides relaying orders. In the room next to him, radiomen copy down the orders onto maps and charts. Dr. Uhura is seated next to Spock, frowning over a notebook filled with signs and symbols.

“Anything to report to the admiral, Doctor?” Spock asks her. Uhura shakes her head slowly, unfocused. She taps her pencil a few times. Spock softly orders Sulu to bring them some tea.

“In a few, maybe,” she says. She scratches something out and then looks in a book for a long time.

Spock hears the door open, feels a presence behind them. Blue-sleeved arms set a plain tea tray down between Spock and Uhura. Spock glances up: it’s Private Kirk, with a long scratch running down his neck and pursed lips.

“Thank you, Private,” says Spock, lifting the teapot. “What happened to your neck?”

“An accident on the mech deck, sir,” says Kirk, standing at attention. 

“No fighting?”

“No fighting, sir,” says Kirk. “Incident with some parts. I was helping out Lieutenant Keenser.”

“Good,” says Spock. “Would you like some tea, Private?”

Uhura glances over once, her eyes blank of judgment. Kirk is clearly surprised, but he nods once, and Spock hands a cup over to Uhura, then pours a cup for Kirk, who takes it with both hands and holds it tightly.

“What kind is it, sir?” Kirk asks, quietly, darting a look at Uhura, whose shoulders are now hunched in concentration.

“Earl Grey,” says Spock. “Do you like Earl Grey, Jim?”

“I don’t really like tea, sir,” says Kirk, right after he’s taken a sip.

Spock raises his eyebrow.

“I mean—I like drinking tea with people,” Kirk says, pulling the words straight from somewhere. “I just don’t much like the taste of it.”

“That is the way I feel about alcohol,” says Spock. “The function of the drink as ‘social lubricant,’ if you will, is practical and pleasurable. The taste, however, is lacking.”

“I disagree completely,” says Kirk. “Although you can’t disagree with opinion, I guess.”

“History would argue otherwise,” says Spock. 

Kirk grins. “I’ll drink to that,” he says, and does.

“Captain,” says Uhura slowly. “Private, would you give us a minute?”

“Yes ma’am,” says Kirk, snapping to attention. He leaves quickly. Spock, as he turns to Uhura, misses his presence oddly. 

“What is it, Doctor?”

Uhura thinks that she has decoded something rather important, and it turns out that she has. Admiral Fletcher takes her advice, passes along a few orders, and four hours later, radio alerts Spock in his quarters and sounds the to-arms.

This isn’t Spock’s first time at sea. It’s not his first battle, his first command. He’s seen the dead before, the ragged bullet holes, the broken faces. He’s killed before and slept soundly afterward.

There is nothing different about this battle. Tactics are larger than strategy in this theater, and Spock doesn’t spend very much time at his radio. Relays blast static over the microphones more often than bullets spray. Once there is a scream so long and shattering that Spock thinks the ship itself is sinking. An arresting cable, weakened by gunfire, falls on a seaman, crushing his legs. He does not pass out for five minutes. 

After the third day, he sees Kirk at a turret, eyes black. There has been a long lull and Spock left orders of what to do in the case of attack. He climbs the thin rungs and goes to the other turret, across from Kirk, and looks through the viewfinder.

“Any action?” he says. He knows full well that Kirk has been on radio duty for the past two days.

“No, sir,” says Kirk crisply, although Kirk must be tired to the bone. “No action, sir.”

“Good,” says Spock. He turns away from the viewfinder to see Kirk standing at attention. “At ease, sailor.”

Kirk’s shoulders slump immediately, and he leans over on his left foot, hands going to hips. “Thank you, sir.”

“Have you gotten much sleep lately, Private?”

“No sir,” says Kirk. “Artillery’s been keeping me up. I’m—” Kirk glances over the rail again, and Spock sees loose longing in his eyes. “I’m always up for a fight, sir.”

“That is an admirable trait,” says Spock. He hesitates, then asks, “Private, I must inform you that I have been asking around about you. Lieutenant Sulu says that the two of you attended Annapolis together.”

Kirk’s eyes freeze over the rail, his pupils dilated. “Yes, sir.”

“May I ask?” says Spock.

Kirk blinks just once, and his face does something familiar that Spock can’t place. “Sir, Captain Spock, if you don’t—I mean, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not say, sir.”

“No, no, of course not,” says Spock. “Do not think that I would pressure you, Private. I respect your privacy.”

Kirk nods once and the expression goes away right in time for Spock to realize what it was. He has seen that expression on the faces of the men that he pulled aside to talk with about their homosexual transgressions. It’s a sucker punch to Spock’s stomach, realizing this. His imagination thunders to life, and he sees other men flicker around Kirk’s form, their lips red and swollen, their eyes dark, their arms heavy. He sees the curve of Kirk’s neck when Kirk looks out over the railing again, and as a flare flashes across the water a few miles out, Kirk’s eyes go red with lust, and the corners of his mouth drip shining white, and it is all too much for Spock, who dismisses himself quickly and flees down the ladder and stands at the prow for a while, to be doused by the cool sea spray.

x

A month and a half later a bullet ricochets off of the side of the ship and buries itself in the muscle of Spock’s left forearm.

It happens in front of quite a lot of sailors, so Spock, though he would normally have let out a scream, or at least breathed loudly and closed his eyes as he laid on the ground, barely reacts. Servicemen converge, and Dr. Uhura, who had been walking with him—Spock takes a moment to worry hugely about her safety—tells a radioman to tell sickbay that the captain has been shot.

It’s not a bad wound, but it hurts incredibly. McCoy plucks the bullet out with great aplomb and lectures Spock about being a big dumb target. Spock lets him get away with it because he notices a strange dynamic in the room. McCoy is upset because his head nurse, Chapel, is upset, and perhaps Spock is just seeing things, but Chapel looks upset because Uhura is so upset, or at least they keep glancing worriedly at each other. A bit of his brain posits that the morphine is making him imagine things, but when his eyelids are nearly shut and the men are turned away, Chapel touches Uhura very lightly on the neck.

Spock takes a moment to wonder how it is that he is on an American battleship in 1941 that is filled with homosexuals. He can’t help himself, and he laughs a little.

“Shit,” says McCoy, real alarm in his voice. “He’s not okay.”

“Why not?” says somebody, a little panicked. “How do you know?”

“The captain never laughs,” says McCoy. “Ever. Christine, 200 more ccs of morphine. Go sit down, Private; I promise you the captain’ll be fine.”

That’s the last thing Spock remembers for a while.

x

When he wakes up for the first time it’s not much later. Uhura is sitting next to his bed, reading a book.

“Doctor,” he says, his mouth sour and heavy. She makes a little noise and scoots her chair close to him.

“Captain, you’re awake,” she says, sounding pleased. “Do you need any water?”

“I was just about to ask,” croaks Spock, trying to smile. His arm aches hugely. He looks down to see it wrapped thoroughly in bandages. Uhura hands him a cup, and he drinks all of it. She pours him more and he drinks that too.

“Any news?” he says.

“The usual,” she says. “Half the fleet sunk. Japanese advancing rapidly. They’ve already got control of Oahu, so I hear.” She smiles gently.

“I shall never understand sarcasm,” he says. “Is everyone aware that I am perfectly fine?”

“Indeed they are,” says Uhura. “An announcement was made. Leonard wants you to stay in bed for at least the next few days, but something tells me you’ll be up before that.”

“Two days? Indeed I shall be,” says Spock, sitting up in a smooth motion. He thinks he’s fine until his head and arm suddenly start pounding. He thinks he can feel his veins hurting. Despite this, he says, “I shall make an appearance at dinner tonight. What time is it?”

“Three in the afternoon,” says Uhura. “I’d schedule that appearance for tomorrow lunch.”

“I am not even in pain,” Spock lies thoroughly. “If you or someone else does not wake me up in two hours, I will find an appropriate legal corporal punishment.”

Uhura laughs. “Noted, sir.”

It doesn’t take much for him to fall back asleep.

x

“Sir, it’s five o’clock.”

Spock wakes up quickly because the voice is close to his ear. He wants water again. He feels clearer but somehow his arm hurts more. Differently, though: the large pain has become a small ache that sits in every cell in his forearm and reverberates into his hand and all the way up his arm.

“Water, sir?” He takes the cup hovering by his hand.

“Thank you, Private,” he says. He drinks. When he hands the cup back to Kirk he is surprised that he is not surprised by Kirk’s presence. “Did you draw lots and come up with the shortest straw?”

Kirk laughs slightly. “No, sir. I was there when you were shot, and I was worried. Dr. Uhura took the first shift and then I insisted that I should replace her, since she had work to do in her office.”

“I see,” says Spock. “Well, Jim, I plan on dining with the troops tonight.” He looks down at himself and finds that, as expected, he is wearing only his undershirt. “Would you mind fetching, or sending someone to fetch, a uniform from my quarters?”

“Yes, sir,” says Kirk. “I’ll be right back.” He goes to the door and leaves.

Spock assumes the uniform he was wearing earlier either needs to be repaired—and cleaned of bloodstains—or destroyed. He lifts the blanket over his legs and sits up, painlessly this time. His trousers could use pressing, but it is of no matter. He spots his shoes in a corner and stands to go get them.

Kirk’s quick return is quite unexpected, and Spock loses his balance when the door opens. There’s a blur and Kirk is there to steady him, his body so warm at Spock’s side. There is the most intriguing smile on his pale lips, and Spock wants to know everything about Kirk, how fast his heartbeat is and what time of day he was born and where all his freckles are. All he says is, “Thank you.”

“Yes, sir,” says Kirk, letting go and stepping away. Not too far away. 

“That did not take very long,” says Spock. “And you do not have my uniform.”

“I sent for it, sir,” says Kirk. He looks concerned. “Do you need anything?”

“My shoes, if you would?” says Spock, sitting carefully back down on the bed. Kirk goes to get them and stands before Spock, holding them, unsure if he should place them on the floor or into Spock’s hands. “On the floor is fine, Jim.”

“Yes, sir,” says Kirk, bending down. Spock doesn’t know why he flushes until he can think again. Of course, Kirk asks, “Are you alright, sir?” when he sees the red tint in Spock’s cheeks.

“Yes, perfectly fine,” says Spock, and then, without really knowing why (since he is not one for small-talk), “Do you have any siblings?”

Kirk looks surprised. “Yes, sir. Major George Samuel Kirk, in north Africa right now. What about you, sir?”

“A brother as well. He is still in China,” says Spock. He has spent much time and more money to keep the military from knowing that Sybok is a prominent communist in their homeland. “What about your parents?”

They talk for so long that Spock has to hurry to dress himself for dinner. He walks in to the cafeteria with Kirk, feeling oddly self conscious of it, and as the soldiers stand to applaud him, he decides that Kirk needs a new assignment.

x

Even Sulu admits that Spock needs more help with the paperwork of fighting a war, so Kirk becomes Spock’s secretary.

There are a number of advantages to this. The first is that Kirk can be seen with Spock without arousing suspicion. The second is that Spock gets to spend more time with Kirk. The third is that now Kirk cannot fight, now Kirk cannot die. 

Spock knows immediately that it is an awful thing to do to a man like Kirk, who may be good at deskwork but hates it, and who longs more than almost anything for thrill of battle. But Kirk agrees to the promotion with an almost indecent amount of submissive haste, and Spock tries not to ponder that. He really tries.

It is early 1942 and the war is going badly for the Allies. The Japanese have leapt their way across the Pacific. They occupy the Philippines, the Netherlands Indies (including most of Papua New Guinea), the Solomon Islands, and Midway, close to the Hawaiian Islands. The staticky messages from Washington are dull in tone, and Spock—well, he has always felt adrift, but he is beginning to feel that the whole country is adrift; like he is towing the United States behind him and watching it sink slowly into the sea.

He is on the prow one night taking a break from a conference when he sees Uhura and Chapel further down the deck, walking together, two feet of space between them. Uhura sees him and walks over, smiling. Chapel does not know him very well and approaches more cautiously.

“Good evening, Captain,” says Uhura formally. She calls him Spock in private (which he prefers; nobody ever called him Schuyler). “Would you like to have tea with us?” She gestures, including Chapel in the hand motion. Chapel is a controlled woman, but Spock sees her eyes narrow slightly; she did not expect Uhura to issue this invitation and she does not approve.

“No, thank you, Doctor,” says Spock, with a glance at Chapel. Another expression flickers across Chapel’s face but Spock cannot read it. “I should retire soon. Training exercises all day tomorrow.”

“I insist,” says Chapel, stepping forward. “I do not have the pleasure of your company very often, Captain.” She smiles genuinely at him. Uhura looks a little surprised.

“Then I must oblige,” says Spock. He offers his arm to Chapel, who accepts, oddly demure. Uhura smiles and doesn’t stop smiling for a long time.

In Uhura’s cabin, she prepares tea and Spock and Chapel talk about the war. It’s fascinating to hear Chapel’s perspective. She is only interested in injuries and deaths and she can name every soldier who has been injured or died, and the extent of their injuries. “Leonard can too,” she tells Spock, twirling her tea cup in her hand. “We don’t ever want to get to the point where there are too many to remember.”

Spock knows the name of every man under his command who has died and he understands.

Uhura’s view of the war is in some ways more extensive than Spock’s. She watches the vast net of radio transmission that covers the Pacific, charting its course and following it down every path. She listens to the texture of it, finds the pattern in the code, and translates it, and comes to the admirals with cupped hands dripping with information. 

Spock walks back to his cabin an hour later. He stops by his office to make sure nobody has left messages for him and finds Kirk with his feet on his desk (Kirk’s desk, not Spock’s), wearing glasses and reading a book. Kirk lowers the book and stares at Spock over his glasses.

“Good evening, Jim,” says Spock. “I was just coming by to see if there were any messages.”

“No, sir,” says Kirk. He hasn’t moved. Soldiers are supposed to jump to attention when the captain enters the room. But Kirk’s feet are still on the desk. He’s peering over those glasses that make him look like he’s forty, not barely nineteen. 

“Then goodnight,” says Spock, and leaves.

x

In late May of 1942, Uhura took a sip of Irish breakfast tea, tilted her head at a cipher she was working on, and screamed.

Spock jumped. He and the Enterprise’s strategic officers were poring over maps of the sea around the Midway Atoll. One of the men spilt his coffee on a scroll. Uhura offered no apology. She picked up her things and ran out of the room, a huge grin on her face. Her heels clacked and her skirt fluttered indecently.

The strategic officers (and indeed, everyone on board) knew how Spock thought of Uhura and mercifully chose not to speak. Spock excused himself and followed Uhura to the radio room, where she was talking rapidly into a microphone.

Spock knew quite a bit of code on his own, but he had no idea what Uhura was saying. When she finished she turned to him, grabbed him by the hand, and tugged him all the way down the ship (earning amused glances from the sailors), past Kirk’s desk, and into Spock’s office.

“Guess what I just did,” said Uhura, prancing.

“I do not know,” said Spock, amused.

“I broke one of the last keys in JN-25,” says Uhura.

Spock is this close to smiling because the ramifications of that are probably going to be huge. “Really? That is excellent news. You are a truly skilled cryptographer, Doctor.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” says Uhura, who really did look like she was about to crow. “Nothing at all.”

This is the collapse of the high Imperial cipher JN-25, and it leads to some surprises, such as a tasty tidbit about Japanese intentions: the US Navy is being led into a trap around the Midway Atoll.

Scotty is leading Spock on an inspection of the ship’s hull a few days later when the orders come in. The seas churn, the Enterprise swivels a few degrees on the glass waters, and they are off to Midway.

x

After the Battle of Midway—three years after, in fact—the Enterprise is in sight of the Japanese mainland, and planes explode on the decks. Kamikaze pilots are finishing themselves over the last enemy they see. This is the last breath of the Empire, and everyone can feel it. 

Sulu does not raise his eyes to the land the entire time they are in sight of it, except for once, after Spock tells him, very quietly and very illegally, about a maneuver that has just been completed in the skies over what used to be a city called Hiroshima. 

The last breath becomes a death rattle, and the veils covering enemy begin to draw back, revealing spoiling organs beneath. The Axis is cancerous, its backbone of pride broken across the world. And at the end of it all, the Enterprise is as undamaged as a ship that has suffered virtually no ravages can be.

Spock watches the ensigns and the flags. The air is very still and soft and the only noise is water. The ensigns step away from each other and the colors unfurled between them. Their faces are as graven stone.

His mother told him, “It is the important things that are left unsaid.”

Spock turns away as the ensigns lower the flags onto the coffins. He walks to his quarters. Kirk is waiting outside. Kirk hands him a thin, unsealed telegram that reads, shortly and sweetly, Surrender completed on the Missouri. Truman declared V-J Day.

Spock lowers the paper. “What do you think?” he asks Kirk. “Was it worth it?”

“No,” says Kirk.

Instinctually Spock glances back before placing his hand on Kirk’s lower arm and turning him. They go into Spock’s quarters together. They will not ever come out.


End file.
